


A Little Pocket of Snow

by Gemi



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: AU, Fluff, Gen, Joxter raising Moomin and Snufkin due to unfortunate circumstances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-06 21:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18859858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemi/pseuds/Gemi
Summary: Joxter hums and puffs his pipe, calmly walking behind as Snufkin scrambles ahead of him. It would be easier, of course, if the little one walked behind Joxter. Less resistance.But Snufkin has never been very fond of easy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of [ Avril-Circus's ](https://avril-circus.tumblr.com/) amazing art on tumblr!

Snufkin is running and stumbling through the snow, more of the latter than the former. He will become a soggy mess soon enough, his green coat dark at the hems and seeming heavier for each tumble he takes. It’s no surprise; the snow goes to his knees, and as much energy his son has, even Snufkin can’t grow longer legs simply because he wish it.  
  
Joxter hums and puffs his pipe, calmly walking behind as Snufkin scrambles ahead of him. It would be easier, of course, if the little one walked behind Joxter. Less resistance.  
  
But Snufkin has never been very fond of _easy_.  
  
Joxter watches as his son faceplants; then he steps over him and keep walking. His kit is tiny enough that Joxter does not even have to take a _large_ step. It’s endearing, and brings to mind other little ones that are sleeping instead of valiantly fighting the snow.  
  
“Da,” Snufkin gasps, snow crunching as he catches up, one tiny paw clutching at Joxter’s cloak, “Da, is Moomin waking?”  
  
“No,” Joxter replies and uses one hand to pull Snufkin up by the scruff; up and over a rock in the way, and Snufkin giggles as he dangles in the air before being let back down. “Not until Spring.”  
  
“He’s missing _lots_ ,” Snufkin complains.  
  
“It is the way of all moomins, to miss the Winter,” Joxter reminds him, because they have spoken of it many times. Still, he can’t resist peeking inside his own cloak, at the pocket he has sewn in there.  
  
White, fuzzy ears peek out of it but nothing else. There is only a warm, soft weight and little if any movement. Still asleep then, which is good. Even if Joxter is aware enough to know he rather miss the presence of the little moomin.  
  
“I’ll tell him all about Winter when he does wake up,” Snufkin decides, and Joxter lets go of his cloak, hiding Moomin from view once more, “All ‘bout the snow and how it glitters, and how it’s white! Like his fur!”  
  
“I am sure he will be very happy to hear it,” Joxter replies.  
  
He wonders if _his_ Moomin ever did see snow. Likely not, but he can never be sure. It is not like they ever spoke of it.  
  
And now they won’t ever speak of it, or anything else.  
  
Joxter sighs and glances up to the sky. The sun has begun to hang low. He and Snufkin can see in the dark, of course, but it does get a fair bit cold when there is nothing but moonlight shining upon them. Not enough to bother Joxter- but Snufkin still shivers easily, winter coat or not.  
  
“Would you like to pick out a resting place for tonight?” he asks, and Snufkin perks up, smiling wide enough to show off his little fangs.  
  
“Yes!” he gasps, turns around to run off-- and faceplants into the snow.  
  
Joxter chuckles and reaches down to tug Snufkin back onto his feet. The kit is scowling, more from the snow stuck on the tip of his nose than anything else. Once Joxter lets him go, Snufkin only shakes it off and runs off once more.  
  
This time with greater success.  
  
Still, the snow remains high and Snufkin remains little. The ‘run’ is a slow and clumsy struggle and more than one fall back into the snow. Joxter carefully makes sure he stays behind Snufkin- it would be rather silly, to walk ahead of his guide.  
  
Despite this, Snufkin _does_ find a good place for the night. It’s a small clearing, protected from the wind by thick bushes and tall trees. There is even the remains of an old campfire, and so Joxter ruffles his son’s hair before he begins to set up their tent. It’s a dull brown and patched twice, but it remains a good shelter.  
  
Joxter never liked sleeping in tents, but fatherhood changes things. Tents are safer and better for little ones that freeze easily. That, and Joxter only tried to sleep in a tree with Snufkin _once_. It was a frightful experience, and one he won’t try again.  
  
He lets Snufkin arrange the blankets inside into a perfect nest while Joxter starts a proper fire. Night comes quickly, and the moon hangs over them in its crescent shape.  
  
It always does during the Winter. But it is fine; the fire is crackling, Snufkin is dozing off in Joxter’s lap and Moomin is snoozing against his chest. Their bellies are full, and Joxter assumes Moomin’s is as well, for the little one has not woken since the first snow. It is a good night, with the stars shining brightly above them in a twinkling shimmer.  
  
He stares up at them and tries to remember the constellations which _his_ Moomin, as well as Moominmama, so very much liked to tell him about. He is not sure he manages, and it has his heart aching something awful.  
  
“I wanna say g’night to Moomin,” his little one mumbles.  
  
Joxter blinks, then smiles around his pipe and nods. He opens up his cloak enough that Snufkin can see the heavy pocket inside, but not enough that the cold air will bother Moomin too much.  
  
Snufkin stands clumsily in his lap and leans closer. He peers into the pocket and the white ball of fur inside, and then he pats the furry head before giving it a little kiss.  
  
“G’night Moomin,” he says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, and you’ll see me soon!”  
  
“Should be but a month left now,” Joxter murmurs, rubbing one thumb against a tiny ear and using his other hand to stroke Snufkin’s mess of a hair. “But for the moment, it is time for bed.”  
  
It still feels _odd_ to say such things. He never quite planned to become a dad, and he definitely did not plan to have _two_ little ones to look after.  
  
But as he curls up inside the tent, two warm lumps pressed against him, one purring and one making those odd little sounds all moomins seem to make, he can’t say he minds.  
  
They are his, after all.  
  
Joxter closes his eyes and sleeps.


	2. Chapter 2

The snow has begun to drip off of the trees all around them. At times they fall in great heaps, much to Snufkin’s delight. Other times they drip bit by bit, drop after drop.   
  
Spring is coming.  
  
Normally, Joxter would not let the seasons dictate _where_ he goes. He enjoys travelling and he enjoys being comfortable, and until recently he did not care more than that. But his son is delighted by the spring, and the warm weight inside Joxter’s pocket makes him reconsider.  
  
He has not seen Mymble in some time, either.  
  
“Do you remember the Moominvalley?” he asks Snufkin, because they are observing the first snowdrops they have seen this season. They are white and droopy, with rounded edges and a sad yet whimsical appearance. It is another thing which he is uncertain of whether _his_ Moomin and Moominmama ever saw. They are such brief flowers, there and gone. He does not know if they lingered enough to let his old friends ever see them.  
  
Moomin twitches within his pocket. He has begun to do that a lot, lately.  
  
“Where we got Moomin?” Snufkin asks, kneeling by the flowers, his eyes big and round as he looks back up at Joxter, “Yes! It was very _wet_.”  
  
“It is not always so wet,” he replies, heart aching at the reminder, “most often, it is very _green_. With a tall, blue house.” Joxter considers, briefly, and then presses one hand against the lump in his cloak. Moomin wiggles within, not awake but nearing it. “Would you like it if we visited? It is on the way to Mymble, and not far from here.”  
  
Snufkin scrunches up his nose. Joxter’s lips twitch into a smile, because yes, he does understand his son. While Joxter himself is rather fond of Mymble- _very_ fond of Mymble- it is different with all those children. They are loud, and a lot of… _themselves_. It is a chaotic mess, which Joxter is good at ignoring in favor of a comfortable bed and food he did not make himself. His son is more sensitive.  
  
Snufkin is fond of Moomin and little else.  
  
“We won’t stay long, and if you wish, you can stay in the woods while I stay in the house,” he adds, because Snufkin knows enough to take care of himself.  
  
“Will you bring _Moomin_ in there?” Snufkin asks, standing back up to tug at Joxter’s sleeves. He let the little one tug them back into walking. The ground squelches under his boots, wet and slippery with mud and drenched grass, “I don’t think he would like it either.”  
  
“If Moomin has woken before we arrive, then he will go with you.”  
  
Satisfied, Snufkin hums and runs ahead, mud splattering his pants. Joxter wonders if he should perhaps attempt to wash their clothes before they reach Mymble. But no; she doesn't care about such things, and it would be a waste of time. Snufkin would become dirtier afterwards, simply to prove a point.  
  
The weight in his pocket squirms, and Joxter smiles around his pipe and keeps walking. He does not think Moomin will sleep much longer- and he is correct on that. For the day after, a mere hour away from Moominvalley, Joxter can feel tiny paws tug at his shirt.  
  
He stops; Snufkin, oblivious, continues to try his very best to walk backwards. Too focused on staring down at his own feet to see Joxter open up his cloak and smile at the sleepy eyes blinking back up at him.  
  
“Moomin,” he greets, and is rewarded with a yawn. White paws rub at blue eyes before they reach up at him. Joxter obediently takes Moomin out of the paw and puts him on his shoulder instead, keeping his hand on the little one. Just in case; Moomin does not have the same sense of balance Joxter and Snufkin does, after all.  
  
He begins to walk once more. Moomin deeply inhales, no doubt taking in the wet and warm-cold air of Spring. His tail squeezes Joxter’s wrist, and then he feels the weight of Moomin resting his head against Joxter’s. An awkward fit- Joxter’s hat is wide enough to force Moomin to duck under the brim of it, and so he ends up half-laying rather than sitting on his shoulder.  
  
“What’s Snufkin doing?” the little one sleepily asks.  
  
“Walking.”  
  
“That’s not the right way to walk,” Moomin mumbles.  
  
“You are correct. It does seem rather unnecessary. Would you like to join him?”  
  
Moomin takes some time to consider the question; a good trait to have. His Moomin… _Moominpapa_ , always struggled to do so. He spoke before thinking, loud and eager. Joxter himself rarely thinks ahead. It must be a trait from Moominmama. Or perhaps a mere survival instinct.  
  
“Yes,” Moomin decides, and Joxter puts him down. The road is a little dryer here, but even if it was wet, he does not think Moomin would mind. He never did see his friends wear clothes. They never seemed to need it.  
  
Joxter puffs his pipe as he watches Moomin run up to Snufkin; his son still focused on his own feet, muttering under his breath as he keeps his arms out for balance.  
  
“Snufkin,” Moomin says, and Joxter grins as his son yelps and falls backwards in a surprised tumble. Moomin looks horrified for but a brief moment, before Snufkin is back up once more.  
  
Joxter stops walking. He watches as Snufkin squeezes Moomin in a hug, rocking them both back and forth with it as he rambles into Moomin’s ear. It makes the other little one giggle, and Joxter chuckles and walks closer.  
  
“It is Spring,” he says, and ruffle both of their fuzzy heads when they beam up at him, cheeks pressed together.  
  
It is never a proper Spring, after all, until a Moomintroll is awake.


End file.
